


kinktober 2019 - day 20

by birdginia



Series: Kinktober 2019 [20]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Despite everything, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Emetophilia, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Moe Through Helplessness, Vomiting, on both ends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-29 00:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21145412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdginia/pseuds/birdginia
Summary: He's happy to take care of his lord's needs, happier even than he would be with someone who might have a loftier standing—Emmanellain is, for all his many faults, someone Honoroit wants to be near.Perhaps, even, because of his faults.





	kinktober 2019 - day 20

**Author's Note:**

> fiction is about exploring ideas and fantasies of things that could never happen in real life, like "sex that is cute and fluffy despite one of them being fourteen years old and one of them being absolutely wasted." so keep that in mind.

Emmanellain is rather more drunk than usual when he arrives home, Honoroit can tell.

He doesn't blame his lord, really—his tutor had snapped at him rather harshly during a sparring match, going so far as to call him a disgrace to the family crest and telling Emmanellain that he'd never find any success on the battlefield, that he'd probably rather wed a dragon than slay one if it meant getting to slack off from his duties (the last, Honoroit thought, was entirely unnecessary and borderline heretical, and would have said as much were it not for his station).

“Blasted fuckin’ cold," Emmanellain mumbles as Honoroit helps him out of his snow-wet clothes. "Fuckin’—wind, fuckin' tavernkeep, fuckin' early closing—“ He trips face-down (onto his bed, at least) trying to step out of his smalls, and Honoroit quickly snatches them off his ankles before he can tangle himself any further.

"Fuck," Emmanellain says into his pillow, making no move to help as Honoroit tries to readjust him to put at least a sleep shirt on. He could catch cold without something covering his legs, but with the coordination that would require, Honoroit decides it would be better to simply fetch an extra blanket.

Emmanellain is not a particularly heavy man, and Honoroit's arms have been conditioned through half a lifetime of carrying his things, but the complete dead weight of a man nearly asleep is still difficult to manage alone.

"My lord," Honoroit says, and Emmanellain turns his head, still rested on the pillow. His eyes are unfocused, and his gaze drifts in and out of contact with Honoroit's, but he does smile for the first time all evening.

"Honoroit..." He reaches out a hand clumsily, landing heavily on Honoroit's shoulder. "Y're far too good for me, do you know that?"

“I’m sure I don't know what you mean, my lord," Honoroit says politely, though he understands. Emmanellain de Fortemps may not have much in the way of a good reputation among the nobility, but at heart Honoroit doesn't believe he deserves half the scorn he receives. He's happy to take care of his lord's needs, happier even than he would be with someone who might have a loftier standing—Emmanellain is, for all his many faults, someone Honoroit wants to be near.

Perhaps, even, because of his faults.

Emmanellain pulls Honoroit towards him with surprising strength, throwing him off balance until he finds himself half on top of his lord—who is still completely nude, and still a little damp from the snow.

"My lord?" Honoroit tries to stand back up, but Emmanellain holds his forearm tight, his larger hand easily encircling it. "Is there something you need?"

"Been hungry all night," he grumbles, pulling Honoroit closer, wrapping his arms around him.

“The cook is in bed, but of course I could get you something to eat, if—“

Emmanellain makes a frustrated, miserable sound. ”No one wanted me, no one wants me, not like this. But the wine isn't _enough_, I need to—I want—Help me?"

Honoroit lets Emmanellain hold him. This would hardly be the first time he needed to be comforted at night, seeking a familiar presence to ground him while his head is spinning and his responsibilities are crushing him from the inside out. And Honoroit has a duty, after all.

“As you wish, my lord,” Honoroit says, reaching behind to put a soothing hand on Emmanellain's shoulder, and then he's suddenly flipped onto his back as Emmanellain rolls them over, his wine-heavy breath in Honoroit’s face.

"M-my lord?"

Emmanellain kisses him.

Honoroit has only rarely considered what it would be like to kiss someone—it seems the sort of thing to be worried about later, if at all, something he might come into when he’s grown or he leaves House Fortemps' service—but he isn't about to pretend he hasn't thought about this exact moment once or twice. About putting his lips to his lord's, feeling his warmth, his kindness, the scarce stubble on his chin that Honoroit only occasionally has to take care of.

But this is no pageboy's chaste fantasy—Emmanellain's mouth is open, his tongue slipping past Honoroit's lips when he opens his own mouth in surprise, his throat is letting out greedy noises, his hands—

His hands are tugging at the laces of Honoroit's breeches, with the finesse of someone very, very used to a situation of this kind despite the sheer amount of wine in his body.

"Ah, my lord, I—“ Honoroit cuts himself off with a hand over his mouth as Emmanellain's hand dips under his clothes and touches his skin, fingers wrapping gently around Honoroit’s cock.

"Please," Emmanellain breathes, "Please, may I, Honoroit, I'm so—“

"Yes," Honoroit says at once, against his better judgment. His lord is drunk, he's not being rational; Honoroit can't let his own desires cause Emmanellain to do something he'll regret.

But he looks so pitiful, like this, so charmingly helpless, and if Honoroit can do anything to—

Emmanellain's mouth descends on Honoroit's cock, and the rest of his concerns get swallowed up with it.

If being kissed was a thought that dwelled at the far back corner of his mind, this one made its home in the basement at least two flights of stairs below that thought entirely, below even the thought of his own mouth on his lord's cock, pleasing him in the most scandalous and yet fitting way possible, given their respective standings and what he knows (entirely too much) about Emmanellain’s preferences.

But he's not going to complain, not with the way the heat of Emmanellain’s mouth envelops Honoroit completely, and the way Emmanellain sounds as satisfied with Honoroit's taste as he does a fine meal, and the way Honoroit can see his hips start to make small circles against the bed that become quicker and more desperate with each muffled sound Honoroit makes.

It's impossibly good, impossibly unfitting of a man of his stature, impossibly—impossible for Honoroit to resist moving himself, seeking sweet friction and gasping when his cock finds the perfect tightness at the back of Emmanellain's throat. He fists his hands in the sheets, unsure of what else to do with them as Emmanellain takes him deep, his throat working around Honoroit, until—

Emmanellain pulls back hard, coughing and gagging, and a horrible noise tears out of his throat before he convulses and voids the contents of his stomach all over Honoroit's thighs.

"Fuck, _fuck_, Fury, I'm sorry—“ Emmanellain manages his head this time before he begins vomiting again, retching over the side of the bed, one hand brought uselessly to his mouth.

Honoroit sits up quickly, ignoring the mess in his lap in favor of reaching out a hand to stroke Emmanellain's back gently as he continues to twitch and shake. He'll have to clean the sheets as well as the rug anyway, there's no time to worry about his clothes. It is rather lucky that Emmanellain hasn’t eaten in hours (and isn’t that just like his lord, perhaps if he’d bothered to take better care of himself he wouldn’t have come home in such a state).

"Oh, _fuck,_" Emmanellain sobs, tears that Honoroit will generously assume are purely a physical reaction to the activation of his gag reflex spilling down his cheeks, the last vestiges of wine and acid dribbling down his chin as he weakly tries to suppress the last of his convulsions.

"It's all right, my lord," Honoroit says quietly, still stroking his back, marveling a little at the way Emmanellain quivers under his hand. "I'll wash up right away, I'll tell your father that I tracked mud on the rug in the morning. The sheets needed cleaning anyway."

Emmanellain looks at him, eyes red, nose beginning to run, vomit staining his mouth and his expression one Honoroit would tentatively describe as "horrified."

"My lord?"

"You," Emmanellain starts, interrupted by a wet cough, "are the only good in this wretch of a world. I don't deserve you."

Honoroit looks over his lord, his tall, handsome, selfish, needy, miserable wreck of a lord, the man who makes Honoroit feel so wanted and worthwhile and blessed every single cold Ishgardian morning, and smiles.


End file.
